The Captain
by Guardian-381
Summary: Laila struggles to come to terms with the growing distance between herself and Noir.
1. Unhappy Endings

Author's Note: Greetings once again to all of you who are returning from reading my other Gorgeous Carat story, "Letters to the Darkness". This one is meant as a sequel to it: since it centres around Laila, however, it's written entirely from her point of view. I hope that you all enjoy, and I'll try to update as quickly as I can!

Disclaimer: I own no part of Gorgeous Carat. Also, I acknowledge that the idea for this story grew out of Kasey Chambers' song, "The Captain".

Dedication: To everyone who knows what it's like to be a surrogate sister. You have my deepest sympathies.

Chapter 1: Unhappy Endings

Until recently, I never knew what people meant by the phrase "three's a crowd". Now that I know, I wish I didn't.

Before Florian came along, I couldn't imagine a Paradise greater than my life with Noir. It made me feel special to be included in so many of his schemes, to be one of the only people with whom he could share a companionable silence. I liked to think that, in return for his patronage, I was fulfilling one of the most important roles in his life: that of a friend, a confidante. In my most proud moments, I almost convinced myself that he thought of me as family.

I knew that something had changed that night, when he left the party at the Rochefort mansion. I had seen the glare of obsession in his eyes too often to fail to recognize it then, but there was something more, something I didn't want to see at the time.

I wish I'd never seen it.

At first, immediately after Florian came to live with us, I could still attach names to my feelings. There was jealousy, possessiveness, even protectiveness. I saw what their relationship was doing to Noir, and wanted more than anything else to tear Florian from his life, to erase the brand that his new obsession seemed to have burned into his heart so quickly, so indelibly.

I suppose that I was scared, more than anything. After all, if Florian was claiming such a strong hold on Noir's heart, could there be any room left in it for me?

Of course, my feeble efforts to turn Noir's head back in my direction, back toward the past, where I had believed that it would always belong, failed miserably. I was powerless to dispel his feelings for Florian, and so I was left to watch them deepen into the love that I've always craved, but never had a chance at.

There's no job as completely dead-ended as that of the surrogate sister.

It would have been easier, I think, if I were able to hate Florian, even a little bit. I know how to deal with enemies: I've had a lot of practice. But his friendship is infectious: I couldn't, and can't, help liking him. He's so gentle, and strong, and beautiful, in both the shallow and true meanings of the term. It's so easy to see why Noir loves him, and that just makes everything harder.

On the surface, everything is fine. Florian has integrated himself into our lives, as well as the household; he and Noir have recently realized that their feelings for each other are reciprocated. We're set up for a fairy tale happily-ever-after, and the brightest future possible, given our histories.

That's the reason that I don't think I'll be able to stay here much longer. Everyone here is so focused on their future, and I can't stop living in the past. I can't stop myself from clinging to the memories of Noir and I stalking the streets of Paris, alone together. I can't stop wanting those days, that relationship, that life back, and the wound reopens each time I'm reminded that they will never return.

I've thought about this often since Noir and Florian's relationship crossed the boundary of 'platonic'. There are logistical problems, of course, the kind of things that I might not have thought of until I was out on the street with my suitcase: where will I go, and what will I do? I know that Noir would give me enough money to survive for a long time if I asked him to, but I can't. The entire point of leaving would be to sever as many of the ties between us as possible, and taking Noir's money would defeat that goal as completely as staying would.

In this case, I can't afford to do that. I can't afford to condemn myself to a lifetime of being second best, when I know what it felt like to be first. I owe it to myself, and to the memory of the days when Noir was mine alone, to step out of his life as gracefully as I can. And I will, as soon as I can figure out how.

Perhaps what I lack is not a plan, but the strength to execute it.


	2. Change Impendent

Author's Note: I apologize for the shortness of these initial chapters. I'll do my best to make the rest longer!

Chapter 2: Change Impendent

I enter the mansion through the kitchen door, my hands full of unmarked paper bags. Noir promised that he would have Florian out of the house for the rest of the day on particularly time-consuming errands, but I learned a long time ago never to take anything for granted. Caution never hurts, but its opposite certainly can.

The bags contain supplies for Florian's surprise birthday party, which is in a week. I was surprised to hear that Noir was doing such a thing, since he's never been altogether comfortable in high society, but I suppose I shouldn't have been. When it comes to Florian, none of Noir's usual rules seem to apply.

I wonder what it's like to enjoy that kind of privilege, and wonder if even Florian realizes the depth of it.

I leave one of the bags in the kitchen, hide the rest in a guest room wardrobe, and head to Noir's study. His door is ajar, and I spend a few moments watching his feverish scribbling before I knock.

"Come in," he growls.

I step into the study and close the door behind me. "I'm back," I say.

Noir stops writing, and replaces his pen in the inkwell before looking up at me. "That was fast. Did you get the decorations?"

I nod. "Yes."

"The food?"

"As much of it as Jeanne said would keep for a week."

"Did you confirm the entertainment, and the serving staff?"

"Yes, I did."

Seemingly appeased, he leans back in his chair. "Good."

"Is there anything else you need me to take care of?" Out of habit, I begin to straighten up his books and papers, condensing the untidy heaps into slightly more compact piles without disturbing their sequence.

He frowns. "Have all the guests replied to their invitations yet?"

"Yes, they have. About fifteen of them are coming."

"Perfect." He retrieves his cigar from the ashtray, places it to his lips, and inhales deeply. "I had hoped to avoid a large affair: this is probably the best case scenario, all things considered."

I smile. "It's nice of you to put yourself through this for him." My voice comes across with perfect innocence, as though I am still simply his adoring servant girl, impressed by his goodness. It carries only the barest traces of my bitterness and confusion, but I know from experience that Noir will be unable to detect them.

His face becomes deathly serious. "It's nothing. He's put himself through enough for me."

_So have I… not that you seem to care very much anymore. _"It's still nice of you." I manage to broaden my smile. "You're lucky to have each other." The truth of these words twists something inside me, but I force myself to say them nonetheless.

Noir grins. "I know."

I turn away from him just in time to see Florian enter the room. "You would not believe the line at the post office. I sincerely hope those letters were as urgent as you said they were." He looks up from peeling off his gloves, and smiles at me. "Oh, good afternoon, Laila."

"Hello, Florian." I nod to him, then to Noir. "If that's all, I'll return to my duties."

"That's all," Noir says distantly, and I don't even need to look at him to know that all of his attention is fixated on Florian.

"Alright, then. I'll see you both later. Remember that dinner will be served a bit early tonight."

Florian chuckles as I begin to make my way toward the door, and I freeze as he says, "What would we do without you, Laila?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'd manage," I say without turning around, forcing myself to speak lightly. It's only once I've gained the safety of the hallway that I allow my hands to clench into fists.

Soon enough, they'll both find out.


	3. In Darkness' Shadow

Chapter 3: In Darkness' Shadow

The morning of Florian's party, I'm awake by six; by six-thirty, I'm dressed and finishing up a very quick breakfast. I spend the half hour that it takes the rest of the servants to arrive going over the to-do list on which I've recorded all of Noir's instructions, and make sure that I've done everything on it properly. It takes three runs through it to satisfy my paranoia.

Once the servants have all arrived, I assemble them in the kitchen while Jeanne prepares breakfast. "You all have your instructions," I remind them in my most businesslike tone. "Execute them to the best of your ability, and remember, we can't afford any serious mistakes. Bring any problems that may arise to my attention right away." I turn to the chauffeurs. "I don't want to see a single guest here before five o'clock. Go around the block fifteen times if you have to, but don't bring them here before then." My attention moves left, to the general hands who have been tasked with preparing the ballroom and its adjacent terrace. "Ray's going to have Florian out of the house by four, but you'll have to start working this morning. I'll do my best to make sure he's distracted, but you all know how curious he is. Don't make any noise that might draw him: do what you need to do as quietly and quickly as you can. Remember that this needs to be kept a secret." I pause, and take a deep breath. "All right. I'll be around if you need me. Are there any questions?" No one speaks, so I nod. "Fine. Good luck, everyone. I know we can do this!"

Once they're all seated at the kitchen tables, I address Jeanne, who's whisking the soon-to-be scrambled eggs. "The caterers will be here at five-thirty. Can you direct them when they arrive?"

She looks at me with her usual firmness. "I won't compromise my portion of the meal to do so."

"That's fair enough. I'll take care of it, then." I lean against the counter, and look at the rest of the servants again. "Still no questions?"

Gerard, one of the more recent additions to the team, chuckles. "Calm down, Laila. Everything's going to be fine."

I smile. "Let's hope so. Count Courland will never forgive us if it isn't."

And I will never forgive myself, for leaving Noir's service in the wake of a mistake.

---

The day passes far too quickly, and though a few close calls involving Florian and the preparations crop up, Noir and I are able to keep him reasonably distracted between us. I find it ironic that our last joint task revolves around Florian, but I suppose that it's to be expected.

Not so long ago, I told Florian that Noir was the centre of our lives. I hadn't yet realized that Florian had become the centre of Noir's life.

At four o'clock sharp, Noir and Florian leave, on the pretence of Noir taking him shopping for an appropriate birthday gift. As Noir puts on his coat, he looks at me pointedly, and I blink three times in rapid succession, one of our old signals. _Don't worry,_ it means. _Things are under control. _

He nods his understanding, acceptance, and trust before he closes the door behind them. Once, I would have felt energized by the knowledge that he'd left something important to him in my hands, but now, I just feel empty, and afraid. So many things could go wrong tonight, and there's no way I can prepare for any of them.

And I'm not even thinking about the party anymore.

The decorating is complete by the time the first guests begin to arrive, and though I can spot at least ten spots that could be improved, it's very well done, all things considered. I run upstairs just long enough to change into the dress that Noir bought for me, a far-too-expensive piece of flowing green silk, and then occupy myself with entertaining the guests until the caterers arrive. Because Jeanne is still cooking, I supervise the laying out of their food and manage to get them out of the way by five-fifty.

_Ten more minutes. Is everything in place?_ I walk through the mansion as quickly as I can in the surprisingly-restrictive dress, checking for serious flaws in the decoration, counting guests. So far, fourteen people have arrived, and as I wonder who's missing, I hear a familiar voice, far too close to my ear for my comfort.

"Why, Miss Laila, formal attire certainly agrees with you. I knew it was a mistake not to insist that you dress up for the last event we attended together."

I turn with as much dignity as I can summon, and find myself eye-to-eye with Michel's raised wine glass. "I was worried that you had been delayed."

He smiles crookedly. "Certainly not. I might even have swum here, if it had come to that. I wouldn't miss one of Ray's parties for the world." He sips his wine. "They are so very rare. What occasion warrants this one, again?"

I glance around, still supervising on auto-pilot. "Florian's birthday."

"Ah, yes." Michel looks around the ballroom, and nods approvingly. "I've never known Ray to organize such an evening. I was beginning to wonder whether that aspect of the Courland blood was missing from his personality." His eyes come back to me, and I force myself to meet their searching gaze. "I imagine that Florian means quite a lot to him."

I force myself to smile. "Couldn't you tell, the last time we met?"

"Of course. I'm sure the blind beggars in the harbour knew, as soon as they saw them…" He trails off, and rotates the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. "I can't say I was paying them much attention, though. I was far too focused on you."

"Oh, yes. I remember you being very attentive." My smile becomes a bit more sincere. "That's probably why you didn't even realize that I was a woman until I told you."

A general rustle of clothing followed by a wave of polite applause interrupts whatever retort Michel may have come up with, and I turn to see Florian and Noir, both dressed in expensive suits, standing in the entryway. Florian seems stunned, but I can tell that the party isn't a total surprise to him; its scale, however, might be. Noir, for his part, glances dutifully around the room, but I can tell that his attention is completely focused on Florian, savouring every aspect of his reaction. I can tell that he's not aware of anything but him.

"They certainly make a good couple," Michel all but purrs. "Don't you agree?"

I nod shallowly. "Completely."

---

Later, once the party is too well underway for my absence to be noticed, I join the people who have chosen to retire to the terrace. From the low balcony above the garden, I watch them, with an interest that a casual observer might mistake for longing, but which is actually very different. If all goes according to plan, this will likely be the last night I spend here, and I want to remember every detail of it, right down to the gaudy pendant hanging from the neck of the woman across the lawn.

"There you are." Michel steps up to the railing beside me, minus his wine glass. "I've been trying to catch your attention all night."

"Have you? I didn't notice." I hope the lie comes out believably enough.

He grins. "Of course you did. I know when a woman's avoiding me."

"Does it happen that often?"

"Not as much as you'd think." He chuckles. "Of course, there are so few women worth chasing back home… unlike here."

I wait until he's on the verge of speaking again before I reply. "Should I be flattered?"

"I should think so." I feel his eyes on my cheek. "Something's changed about you, Laila. You're not nearly as… intense as I remember."

I swallow once. "I have a favour to ask, Michel."

"Really?" In my peripheral vision, I watch him turn and rest his elbows on the railing. "What could 'scum' like me possibly do for a mighty avenging Fury like yourself?"

I smile. "I suppose I deserve that." I turn to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He waves his hand. "I deserved it, as you say."

I look out at the garden again, and sigh. "When are you leaving?"

He pauses. "Tomorrow afternoon. Why?" He smirks, and his expression is at once so similar to and so different from Noir's. "Can't wait to be rid of me?"

"No. That's not it." I turn in his direction completely, and rest my hand on the railing for support. "When you leave… I want to go with you."

His expression transforms from jovial to absolutely unreadable. "Why?"

"Because I can't stay here anymore."

He frowns. "Is Ray mistreating you?"

"No."

"Are you in some other kind of trouble, then?"

"No."

Concern spreads over the blank slate of his face. "Then why?"

I blink quickly, hoping to dispel my tears before he sees them. "Please don't ask me that."

He stares at me for an interminable few moments, then sighs. "Does Ray know?"

"Not yet. I'll tell him tomorrow morning." I glance back into the ballroom. "I didn't want to spoil their night."

He sighs again, this time in disbelief, or perhaps grudging approval. "Faithful to the end."

I harden my gaze. "Don't make it sound like I'm a dog."

Michel laughs suddenly, so loudly that a few people turn to look at us. "There's the fire I was missing." He becomes serious again just as suddenly. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

I shake my head. "No. But I have to do it anyway."

Michel raises his hand, as though he means to touch me, but lowers it almost as quickly. "I'll extend my stay in Paris for three days," he says. "Take at least that long to think things through. If you still want to come along then, I'll be glad to have you. If you don't…" He shrugs. "It's your choice."

"I won't change my mind," I warn him.

He smiles. "We'll see. I wouldn't count Ray out just yet: he can be very persuasive when it comes to things he cares about."

I don't bother telling him that I've lost the ability to imagine Noir fighting for me. "We'll see," I echo mindlessly.

To his credit, Michel doesn't say anything more.


	4. Surrogate Brothers

Chapter 4: Surrogate Brothers

I wake up on the morning after the party feeling as though I've been asleep for centuries instead of hours. For a moment, I have a sense of profound de-realization, as though I'm waking up in someone else's bed, in someone else's life. My nightgown seems to hang strangely as I sit up, and the hand that brushes my hair from my face is not mine. For a terrifying few moments, my memories are blank.

Once they return, I wish they had never come back.

I look at the bedside clock as I throw the covers off and rise: it's only six-thirty. Breakfast isn't for another hour, at least, but I can't stay in bed, as though I'm on the brink of the greatest change I've faced since I met Noir. I have to do something… to plan, to prepare for it. I have to be ready when it comes.

It might help if I had some idea of how to do that.

As I dress, I notice a folded slip of paper on the floor by the door, and recognize the Courland family crest pressed into the wax sealing it. My heart sinks, leaps, and sinks again at the thought that it might be from Noir, but in the time it takes me to bend down and collect it, I realize the idiocy of that assumption. Noir would never be so… pretentious. Of course, it must be from Michel. I smile as I recall the look on Noir's face when Michel invited himself to stay for a few days. I'm sure Noir might have put up more of a fight had Florian not, surprisingly tactfully, chosen that moment to introduce him to some wealthy dowager.

I break the seal of the letter, and unfold it. The handwriting is unfamiliar, but surprisingly polished, considering the haste in which the note was likely written. It reads:

_My dear Laila,_

_I invite you to lunch with me at Les Deux Moulins. There are some practicalities we must discuss._

_Faithfully yours,_

_Michel_

I sigh, and fold the letter up once again. Now, in the glare of the morning light, it seems crazy that I ever considered leaving. Surely, I'm meant to be here, running the affairs of this house and taking care of Noir, until it's time to plan my own funeral? Leaving, especially to run off with Michel, seems like the highest form of lunacy.

I tuck the letter resolutely into one of my pockets. If it's lunacy, then I suppose I am a lunatic.

---

"I don't understand why he has to stay here," Noir grumbles as I approach the dining room. "Have all of Paris' hotels suddenly gone bankrupt?"

"Noir, for the third time, please be civil. He is family, after all, and it's not his fault that his plans were changed." Florian pauses, and I visualize his grin a second or two before I'm in a position to see it. "Besides, he helped us out before, and wasn't it you that said, 'A favour to the great house Courland will never be forgotten?'

Noir's hand pauses in the act of lifting his cigar to his mouth. "You were supposed to be catatonic then, as I recall."

Florian chuckles, and I circle the table to take my usual seat at Noir's right. Neither of them seems to have noticed me yet. "I picked up a bit here and there." He turns to me, and nods. "Good morning, Laila. Thank you very much for last night."

I bow my head shallowly, self-effacingly. "You're welcome, Florian, but you really should be thanking Noir. It was all his idea: I just did what he asked." _As always._

"Don't sell yourself so short. I'm sure the evening wouldn't have been nearly as successful without your contribution." Florian smiles, and I'm reminded anew of just how impossible it is to feel anything negative towards him. He may have taken my life from me, but how can I hold it against him, when the whole thing happened so innocently?

Michel enters the dining room a few moments later, dressed in one of Noir's suits. "I hope you don't mind my borrowing your clothes for today, Ray," he says, despite the fact that Noir's scowl reveals exactly how he feels on the matter. "My own are all so travel-stained: completely unfit for polite society." He fingers the cuff of his borrowed jacket. "It's fortunate that we're about the same size."

"Isn't it?" Noir says through gritted teeth.

Florian smiles across the table at me, and I am about to return the gesture when Michel sits down next to me, and seizes my attention. "Did you find my note, Laila?" he asks, loudly enough for the others to hear.

"Note?" Florian asks politely. Noir is still glowering, and I'm unable to tell whether he's annoyed that Michel is communicating with me behind his back or simply still angry about the violation of his wardrobe.

"Oh, just an invitation to lunch." I smile, and turn to Michel. "I haven't decided whether I'll come yet. There's quite a bit of cleaning up to do from yesterday."

Noir stubs his cigar out in the ashtray that sits between us. "The cleanup can wait, Laila. If you want to go, don't let it stop you." His eyes flick in Florian's direction, and I feel like an outsider, as though I've been looking at their world through an open window, and someone has just closed the curtains on me.

"Besides, I'm only in town for a few days." Michel's tone is soft, and I wonder if I should interpret it as an indication of sympathy. "If we don't seize this opportunity, who knows when we may see each other again?" A flirtatious note creeps into his voice, but I have only to look into his eyes to doubt its sincerity.

"Alright, then." I say. "I'll meet you there at noon…" I turn to Noir. "If you're sure it's okay."

"I already said it was," he replies, more than a little curtly.

"I can hardly wait," Michel says, and when I glance back at him, he's grinning, as though he knows something that we don't.

Maybe he does.

---

"I believe I understand why your present circumstances have become so uncomfortable," Michel says, breaking the silence that's hung over our table since we were seated here by the hostess.

I set down the utensils I've been toying with absent-mindedly, and look up at him. "Really?"

He nods. "Certainly. And I don't blame you in the slightest. It can't be easy, watching those two together, day after day…" His fingertips settle on the freshly-laundered tablecloth. "Not when you want Ray for yourself."

I swallow, and feel my cheeks heat up. "It's not… exactly like that."

"Oh, really?" Michel tilts his head to one side, and I am momentarily stunned by his attentiveness. "I apologize. Would you be so kind as to explain it to me?"

I twist my napkin in my lap. "It's not that I want Ray for myself… at least, not in a romantic context. I mean, I've thought about it, but… I gave up on it long before I gave up on staying. It's not the fact that he and Florian are together that makes me want to leave." I look away. "It's the fact that Ray doesn't seem to have any time at all for me anymore, not even as a friend."

"Have you spoken with him about this?"

I laugh. "You don't know very much about Ray. He'd hate that kind of weakness… he'd think I was being too high maintenance."

"Do you really think so?" Michel shrugs. "Of course, you know him better than I do, but I don't believe that he would interpret it that way. At least, not if the words were coming from you." He smiles. "Ray is the kind of man who won't realize these things unless you tell him what he's doing wrong. He tends to get caught up, to focus his entirety on a few select elements of his life, at the potential expense of everything else."

I look back at him. "You might be right."

He smirks. "Of course I am. Ray and I have more in common than our appearances, you know."

I feel strange as he speaks these words, as though I've just tripped over Pandora's box and the lid is beginning to fall open. "I'm beginning to see that."

"Just beginning, hmm?" Michel leans across the table slightly. "Laila… why do you want to come with me?"

I glare at him. "I told you, don't ask me that."

He holds up his hands. "No, no. You misunderstand me." He inhales deeply. "Why do you want to run off with me, as opposed to running somewhere else? Let's be honest: you barely know me, and you've never seemed very impressed with what you've experienced of my personality." He leans back. "So, why?"

"I don't know," I answer honestly.

"Is it because we're so much alike?" he replies immediately.

I blink quickly, fighting the instinct to deny this theory without even considering it. Once I've managed to win that battle, I focus on Michel. In this moment, I can only see how he differs from Noir: his infinitely lighter hair, his infinitely softer hands. I recall his ostentation, and the comfort level at which he moves through high society. All of these things and more distinguish him from Noir, and it seems ludicrous that I could be looking for a surrogate Noir in him. After all, they're nothing alike.

But then I begin to see him a bit differently, perhaps a bit more clearly. I note the structure of his face, and recall the expressions that I've witnessed on it. I acknowledge his stubbornness, his equal capacity for manipulative charm and cruelty. I realize the simple wisdom with which he's just managed to see right through me, though I've barely been able to get beneath my own surface, and remember all the times I've watched Noir do the same thing.

"I do believe you have your answer, Miss Laila," Michel says as he raises his water glass to me.

"Maybe." My voice is quiet, and I wonder if he can hear me. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"You still have two days to decide," he replies, and sips from his glass.

I don't want to admit that even two years might not be enough time to decide not only what I want to do, but whether I'm doing it for the right reasons.


	5. Crossing The Bridge

Chapter 5: Crossing The Bridge

In the wake of my lunch with Michel, I believe that I've begun to understand the depth of my dilemma. It's not just about leaving Noir, I see now; it's about what I'm leaving him for, which sanctuary I'm running toward, and whether that haven will turn out to be something I need, or whether it will just become another chain around my soul.

And I only have two days to decide.

I roll over, and feel the mattress beneath me give just enough beneath by weight. Once again, I go over my situation, like a prisoner running her hands over the walls of her cell, looking for a loose stone, a rusted bar… a way out. What an apt analogy.

I sigh, heavily. On paper, there's no good reason to leave Noir. I love my life: I love living here, and working with such great people. I've come to appreciate the pace of Parisian society. I love Noel, and Florian… even Solomon is comforting, though he barely comes around anymore. Most of all, of course, I love Noir, for reasons beyond and including the fact that he's given me everything I could ever want or need.

Now, however, it feels as though he's taken back the most important gift of all: his heart.

Maybe that's what this all boils down to, in the end. Even before Florian, I knew that Noir didn't love me as much as I loved him. I knew that there was a part of his heart I wouldn't ever be able to penetrate, but as long as that part remained empty, I could take comfort in the fact that his feelings for me were the closest thing to love that he knew. There was no one closer to him than I was, and though he's never been the type to require a confidante, there is satisfaction in being in first place, whether or not you're actually engaged in competition with anyone else

When Noir fell in love with him, though, Florian ascended into that sealed portion of his heart, to a level of importance that I can't even touch. Suddenly, they were so far from me, in a whole other league, and I felt so… left behind, I suppose. At first, I tried to fight it, to steal Noir back, but I soon realized just how hopeless this goal was.

How could I reclaim his heart, when he had relinquished it with such perfect willingness?

In that situation, what else could I do but keep my mouth shut, and keep doing my best, even when it felt perfectly impossible? I tried to content myself with my work, with the knowledge that I was still a very important presence in Noir's life. I tried to be satisfied with being near him, day after day. I wanted that to be enough, so badly. I wanted to be happy again.

But, of course, it wasn't.

I roll over again, pulling the thin summer blankets with me, and enjoy the feeling of being cocooned within them. It seems inevitable that I'll leave Noir's household; if I don't do it now, I'll do it sometime very soon. The part of my problem is resolved, then. It will be difficult, of course, but I have to deal with it. If I run from it, I'll just be cheapening everything we used to have.

Nevertheless, despite the urgency of my flight, I can't put Michel's points out of my mind. Though I need to leave, is it a good idea to run off with him? Can I honestly say that I'm going with him for any reason besides the fact that he reminds me of Noir, in more ways than I would have believed possible until a few days ago?

If I can't, does it matter?

I sit up slowly, and let the covers pool around my waist. Maybe it's better this way, after all. Maybe a clean break is too much to ask for, at least for now. Maybe, once I've had some time to disconnect from this life and put some distance between myself and Noir, I'll be able to begin to bury the traces of our relationship, the relics of our history. I think that's the best I can hope for at this point.

Does it really make any difference whether I get to that point through sheer stubbornness, or by using Michel as a crutch? What matters most is that I get there eventually, and I'm not sure I'm strong enough to blaze my own path.

I exhale in a resolute huff. I know what I mean to do, what I must do, though uncertainty begins to rally itself within me as soon as my feet touch the floor.

It's time Noir knew as well.

----

It's nearly ten o'clock, and though I'm sure both Florian and Michel are already asleep, I also know that Noir never goes to bed before midnight. I check his study first, in the off-chance that he's still working; he's not, and so I am forced to knock on his bedroom door.

Though I know that this is the most likely place for him to be, I still shiver when he calls, "What is it?"

I open the door, enter the room, and close it behind me. Noir's sitting in the high-backed chair farthest from the door, with a very cumbersome-looking book open in his lap. He's still dressed. "I'm sorry to interrupt you," I say, half-hoping that he'll order me away so that I can postpone this confrontation until another day, another hour, another minute. I'm absolutely sure that, at any time but the present, I'll be more appropriately equipped for this.

Fear makes us all delusional.

Noir closes his book, and yawns. "Not at all. I was about to go to sleep soon, anyway, and this book isn't very interesting." He sets it down on the floor by the chair, and crosses his legs. "Is something wrong?"

"No," I answer reflexively, and close my eyes immediately. "I mean, yes." I open my eyes. "Maybe."

Concern lines his forehead shallowly, and I want to groan. That simple expression of human feeling is almost enough to make me forget my resolve. "What is it, Laila?" Apprehension rises into his eyes, and it reminds me just how unlike myself I must seem to him.

It reminds me how much unlike myself I have actually become.

"I have to leave," I say, and it's a struggle to keep the words from overlapping in my haste to get them out.

The crease in his forehead deepens. "I don't understand what you mean," he says, far too gently. "What do you need to 'leave'?"

I inhale shakily. "You. Here. Everything." I raise a hand to my mouth, and force my legs to remain steady. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I can't… I can't stay."

The concern and apprehension don't exactly vanish from his face; it would, perhaps, be more accurate to say that they've frozen over. "I don't understand," he repeats, too softly.

My heart seems to have stopped, and I wonder how I've managed to retain my powers of speech without its contribution to my existence. "I'm planning to leave with Michel in two days. I'm sorry for the short notice, but I… I've tried so hard, and I need to do this now… I can't afford to back out." I lower my hand, and bow my head. "I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?" I flinch at the edge in his voice, and swallow as I watch him rise from his chair. "Where is this coming from?" He advances toward me, but checks himself after a few steps. "Are you so unhappy here? Do you lack anything?" The edge becomes protective, and I blink back tears. "Is someone mistreating you? Are you being threatened? Are you in some sort of trouble?"

The terrible similarity between his reaction and Michel's silences me nearly long enough that Noir feels forced to speak again. "It's nothing like that," I finally manage to get out.

"Then what is it?" He seems on the verge of becoming frantic. "What could be so terrible that you feel the need to resort to this sort of…" The pause is deafening. "…betrayal?"

Hurt spreads through my chest in a wave, and I raise my head. "Don't pretend you'll miss me."

His lips tense into a thin line, and I read both surprise and anger in his expression. "Excuse me?"

My hands clench into fists, and I draw strength from their tension. "Don't pretend you'll even notice I'm gone, after a few days, once the other servants pick up the slack. You don't need me anymore, so… how can you call my leaving a betrayal? How _dare _you call my leaving a betrayal, when you betrayed me first?"

Noir's back straightens, and both surprise and anger melt into a perfectly stunned expression. "Where the Hell is all of this coming from?"

I sigh. "Ever since Florian got here--"

He growls, and I step back. "You've got to be joking. Is that what this is about?" His voice is rapidly ascending into a roar. "Is that why you're running away, because you're jealous? Because you didn't get your way?" He inhales sharply, and his eyes glint dangerously. "How very… childish." He spits the last word, as though it's a curse.

Perhaps it's close enough.

"Call it what you want, but it's more than that!" I raise my fists, only to throw them down again. "You don't understand what it's like. You don't even see what you're doing! All you care about is him, and whether he's safe, and whether he's happy… you've forgotten about me. You don't care about me anymore."

"Would you listen to yourself? You sound like you belong in a melodramatic novel."

"I don't care!" I feel a tear slide down my cheek, and brush it away before it can reach the level of my mouth. "You don't understand, because you have Florian, and your work, and your books, and your double life. But what do I have, Noir?" My hands open, finally, and I press them to my chest briefly for emphasis. "What have I ever had, except for you? What have I ever wanted, except for you?"

"So what am I supposed to do? Play along with your stupid fantasies?" His nostrils flare. "Things change, Laila."

"Evidently," I whisper. My hands fall limply to my sides, their strength spent.

The silence that follows this exchange seems so long that I'm surprised that daylight has not come by the time Noir speaks again. "You listen to me," he says, more coldly than I can remember him ever speaking to someone he didn't completely loathe. "I finally have everything I ever wanted. I'm finally happy, and if you're so God-damned selfish that you want to try getting in the way of that, it's probably best for all of us if you get the Hell out of our lives."

The tears scald my eyes, but I don't let them fall, even when he turns his back on me. "Noir… this isn't--"

"Get out." he says, without turning around. "I don't want to hear another word." When I don't move immediately, he whirls around, and his face is so ugly, so twisted with rage and pain that the sight of it makes me recoil into the closed door behind me. "Get out!"

With no other choice, I exit the room as quickly as I can, and return to my own. Only once I'm there, with the key in the lock and the covers pulled over my head, do I allow myself to cry. I cry over the irrevocability of my decision, for the relationship I'll never be able to restore to civility, much less to intimacy. I cry because Noir misunderstood so much of my motivation, and I'll never have the chance to correct any of his misconceptions. I cry because, even in my darkest moments, I never meant for things to turn out this way.

Until tonight, I would never have believed that Noir's happiness precluded my own.


	6. Convalescence

Chapter 6: Convalescence

I only realize that I've fallen asleep when I open my eyes and see sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows. The feeling of de-realization that I experienced yesterday is back, but this time, it doesn't come from forgetfulness. I remember every detail of last night: I just can't believe it happened.

Someone knocks on my door, very gently, and I turn toward it apprehensively, as though I expect someone dangerous to be standing on the other side. "Come in."

The door opens, and Florian enters, balancing a breakfast tray on one arm. I notice the single-flower vase standing next to the orange juice, and I can't decide whether the urge to cry comes from gratitude, or some other, more mysterious emotion. "Good morning," he says, closing the door behind him. "How are you feeling?"

I sniff, and smile in what I'm sure must be a sad manner. "Like nothing will ever be okay again." When his face doesn't become curious, I look away. "Noir told you, of course."

"He came to my room last night." Florian admits, and carefully sets the tray down on my night-table.

"What time is it?" I ask the question more to delay further talk of Noir than out of interest in its answer.

"A bit after ten. I made your excuses to the staff, and gave them their orders." Florian smiles. "For the record, you have a mild fever."

"Thank you." The scent of the food eventually makes me turn in his direction once again, and I reach for a slice of buttered toast. "He's still furious, isn't he?"

"I think he's more distraught than furious." Florian sits down on the edge of the bed. "He doesn't understand what's wrong… and he blames himself for it anyway. At least, that's the impression I got."

"It's probably that." I stop eating, and examine the piece of toast in my hand. "And do you? Understand, I mean."

Florian watches me silently until I take another bite. Then, while I'm chewing, he says, "Not completely. I have no idea what you're going through, but if it's anything like what I imagine, I can understand you wanting to get away." He hesitates. "I think… I might do the same, if our roles were reversed."

"There's no fear of that," I say, rather sarcastically. As soon as I've spoken, I bow my head apologetically. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve that."

"Don't worry about it. I don't mind." Florian takes a deep breath. "Laila… I'm sorry that you're going through this. I wish it didn't hurt you so much. But I can't apologize for loving Noir. I can't apologize for the fact that I've found happiness with him."

The tears start to return, and I drop the toast back onto the tray. "I don't want you to. I just…" I sniff again, more resolutely. "That's why I'm leaving. I don't want to become bitter, and end up destroying your happiness. I think that's what'll happen if I keep seeing it every day… if I'm constantly reminded of how much he loves you."

"I understand that."

I turn to the window. "So why can't he?"

"I don't know, and I won't presume to speak for him." A pause. "If I had to guess, though, I'd say it's simply because he loves you too much."

A feeling closely akin to nausea flows over me, and I shudder. "How can you say that? You, of all people--"

"Please, don't misunderstand me. I'm not trying to be cruel." Another pause. "Laila, you know what sort of man Noir is far better than I do, so I may be wrong about this. However, if you ask me…" He sighs. "Noir doesn't love you as a woman. In that, we're in total agreement. Nevertheless, his love for you is very intense, deeper perhaps than that he would have for a blood sister. You're extremely important to him; I might go so far as to say that you are one of the pillars on which his entire world rests. He's never imagined that a life without you could exist, and now that it's about to become reality, he's terrified." I feel Florian's hand settle on my shoulder. "He's not angry. He's scared, like a child facing abandonment. Because of that, he can't understand right now… but I'm sure he will, in time."

An image of Noir's twisted expression crosses my mind's eye, and I shake my head. "I'm not so sure." I look down at my hands. "Even if you're right, what am I supposed to do? I'm not his sister, or his mother, or his wife: it's not my responsibility to take care of him, to provide that."

"I don't deny that, and nor am I asking that you do so. As for whether or not you're important to Noir…" His hand leaves my shoulder. "We'll see." I believe that I can hear a smile in his voice. "He tells me that you're leaving with Michel. Do you have any plans beyond that?"

"Not really."

I hear the rustling of his clothes against the bedspread, and watch the change in the room's shadows as he rises. "If there's anything I can do for you, just ask, alright?"

"Alright," I repeat. Almost immediately thereafter, I call after him. "Florian."

"Yes?"

I look at him, and commit his appearance to memory. I absorb the details of his glistening hair, his immaculate clothing, his careless beauty. Surely, I try to tell myself, there's no shame in losing to someone so perfect. How could I have ever hoped to compete with him?

For the briefest moment, I nearly believe my own lies.

"Thank you," I say, trying my best for graciousness. "I know you'll make each other happy."

Florian smiles. "I hope so." He tenses, as though he means to come closer again, but settles instead for a very courtly bow. "I know that you'll find your own happiness eventually, Laila. Until then, I wish you the very best."

"Thank you," I manage again.

How can I tell him that the fact of his happiness obviates the possibility of mine?

---

By the time I drag myself out of bed, it's already afternoon. I dress, and tidy up absently, for lack of anything better to do. More than once, I find my attention drifting to my closed bedroom door, and the house that lies beyond it, but the threat of running into Noir keeps me imprisoned here more completely than if the door were nailed shut.

Sometime around two-thirty, when I've resorted to re-organizing the contents of my wardrobe by size, colour, and style, a knock interrupts the monotony of my afternoon, and Michel enters without waiting for me to invite him in. "I take it that your meeting with Ray didn't go very well?"

I look up from the long row of clothes hanging in the wardrobe, most of which I can't even remember seeing, much less wearing, before today. "How did you find out?"

Michel smiles, a bit uncertainly. I presume he's afraid of offending me by displaying too much good humour. If I had the strength, I'd tell him that he doesn't need to worry about such things; I'm too numb to care about them anymore. "Really, now, it wasn't very difficult to figure out. Florian is not exactly the world's best liar, and even if he hadn't botched your excuses so badly, Ray's in the foulest mood I've ever had the privilege of witnessing… which is quite something." He closes the door, and clasps his hands behind his back. "Are you alright?"

"No," I reply honestly.

"That's understandable." His face turns sympathetic. "May I offer any assistance?"

I shake my head. "It doesn't feel real yet. It feels like it happened to someone else, like I might wake up any minute, and it'll be just another morning, just another day."

"Would you prefer that?" Michel asks softly.

"Yes," I answer instinctively. "But… I know that I can't have it. I know that it's not what I need. I know it would destroy me, and hold me back, and in the end… I'd be disappointed in everything, most of all myself." I meet his eyes. "I made the right choice. I just have to learn to live with it."

Michel nods, a bit gravely. "I admire your strength, Laila. You are an inspiration."

Despite myself, despite everything, I laugh. "Strength? You call this strength? It took me a whole morning to get out of bed, and even now that I'm up, I'm too much of a coward to leave my room."

"Sometimes, the simple act of rising, no matter how long it takes to accomplish, is evidence of the greatest strength."

I shudder, almost in defiance of his comfort. "I don't feel strong. I feel so weak, and confused." I swallow. "I feel broken. I have no idea how I'm going to face him again."

Michel takes a step forward, but hesitates before he comes within touching distance. "You don't need to worry about that. I'll take care of everything… if you're willing to let me, of course." He grins, but I can tell that the expression is forced. "I would never dream of forcing unsolicited aid on you."

I rub my eyes, and am shocked to find them dry. "Thank you." I slide my hands down my cheeks, and fold my arms over my chest as I shudder again. "I'm so sorry that I had to drag you into this. I'm asking so much from you… I'm sorry."

"Not at all. If I didn't want to help you, I could always have refused, couldn't I?" This time, he does come all the way forward, and I feel his lips pressed against my fingertips seconds after his hand envelops mine. "Of course, I have always had a weakness for princesses in distress."

I jerk my hand away, and wind up doing so with something that borders on playfulness. "Sorry to disappoint you. I'm just a scullery maid."

His grin would likely have been infectious if I weren't so despondent. "Weren't you paying attention to the story of Cinderella? Scullery maids make the best princesses."

Though I can't match his grin, I do manage a weak smile. "Thank you, Michel."

"What for?"

"For helping me, of course. For being so kind, and generous, and understanding…" My smile becomes a bit broader. "For trying to cheer me up."

"Ah," he breathes, as though I've just revealed one of the eternal mysteries of the universe to him. "May I take that gratitude as a sign that I've succeeded?"

I look away from him. "Do what you like."

"Don't I always?" I watch him turn to glance at the clock, and hear him sigh. "I should be going. There are some things I need to sort out before this evening." Gently, he turns my face back in his direction. "Will you be alright?"

I nod. "Don't worry about me."

He shrugs. "As you will. I believe someone should, however."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask as he backs toward the door.

"Whatever you like," he says as the door closes behind him.

I wish I could begin to address those three simple words, and the realms of possibility that seem to lurk behind them.


	7. Home Sweet Freedom

This will be the last chapter of this story. As always, I'd like to thank everyone who stuck with it, who read and, hopefully, enjoyed it. I'm so happy to have had the privilege to share this story with you, and hope that the ending will not disappoint. 

Also, as an aside, this chapter's title was taken from a Paula Cole song called "Happy Home". And thank you to Astra, for pointing out a glitch in the posting at one of the most crucial points.

Chapter 7: Home Sweet Freedom

Tomorrow, Michel will leave.

Tomorrow, I'll go with him.

I sit up in bed, though the clock tells me that it's barely two in the morning. The sky is clear, and I trip over one of my three pieces of luggage on my way to the window. Above me, the crescent moon seems to float on a violet cloud; beneath me, the garden spreads out to the stone wall surrounding Noir's home. Noir's home… I turn the words over in my mind, and allow their meaning to spread through my consciousness.

Yes, this building is Noir's home, and because of that, it can no longer be mine.

I've tried so hard to come to terms with this decision, and what it will mean to every aspect of my life. I've tried to deal with the changes, with the severe losses and seemingly-inadequate gains. I've tried to rationalize this pain, and still, I am no more at peace with it than I was to begin with.

If Noir asked me to stay, I doubt I would be able to refuse him. That's why I have to leave as soon as possible, before he recovers enough to do so.

I sigh, and turn away from the window. I've come to realize that I've always taken stability for granted; I never believed that there would come a day when I would be unsure of what I was going to do, why I was doing it, and whether it was the right choice. I never thought that I would be unresolved about anything, at least not as long as Noir was alive.

Now, resolve is a dream, and even its hazy image is fading quickly.

I sink back into my bed, which is too soft, and stare up at the ceiling, which is too bleak. The darkness surrounds me, and the unknown quantities it conceals are almost a metaphor for the many ways my life could unravel from this point, for the many people I might become, and the many lives I've released myself into the possibility of living.

I try to focus on the most positive of these projections, and find optimism as elusive as oblivion.

---

I expect no fanfare when Michel and I leave the house the next day, and receive none. As I stand in the entryway, waiting for Michel to join me, I can hear a servant dusting the nearby parlour, and the sound of another dragging a bucket across the floor of the intersecting hallway in the process of, presumably, scrubbing it. The noise reminds me that, despite my departure, the house is moving on, and the feeling both sickens and soothes me. On one hand, I will not be missed; on the other, I will not have to feel guilty for extracting the price of my freedom from the wages of another's inconvenience.

"Laila."

I look up, and see Florian coming down the stairs. In his left hand, he's holding a small, rectangular box, barely large enough for a few sheets of folded paper. "Thank goodness. You haven't left yet."

"Hello, Florian," I say. "I don't know what you need, but Michel's going to be here soon, and---"

"I know: I don't need anything. I just wanted to give you this." He holds the box out to me. "It's not much… certainly not as much as I wanted to give you. Noir wouldn't hear of a party, though, and I had to sneak out just to buy this." He chuckles. "Noel picked it out. He said it was perfect, so if you don't like it, remember that I had nothing to do with it."

I take the box cautiously, as though I expect it to transform into a serpent at any moment. "Florian…" As my right hand closes over the box, I press my left to my mouth. "Thank you. Thank you so much." My gaze traces the outline of the sloppily-tied ribbon. "Do you mind if I open it later? I may need it… on the trip."

Florian smiles. "Do as you like. It's yours." He opens his arms, and I half walk, half fall into them.

"Thank Noel for me too," I say as his arms fold around me.

"I will," he replies.

From the stairs, someone clears their throat pointedly, and I look up to see Michel descending languidly, as though he has nowhere in particular to be. "I sincerely hope that I am not interrupting anything," he says with a pleasant grin.

Florian laughs, and the vibration of his chest is comforting. "Not at all. We were saying goodbye."

"Well, don't let me stop you." Michel touches my shoulder as he passes. "Come when you're ready. Don't rush yourself."

I nod. "Thank you."

Once he's gone, I close my eyes. "Please take care of everything," I whisper to Florian. "I know you will anyway, but…"

"I understand. And I will."

I tighten my hold on him as though, in this last extremity before my departure, my instinct is to cling to any relic of my old life. "Please… thank Noir for me too. Not now, but when he's calmed down, when and if he begins to understand why I'm doing this… thank him for everything. Thank him for being there for me, and for doing his best." I feel tears coming, and sniff resolutely, determined not to cry. "Tell him I love him, and I always will. Tell him I'm sorry it had to be this way."

"I will," Florian says, for the third time. "On one condition."

"Yes?"

He leans down, and his breath stirs my hair as he says, "Be happy, Laila. Whatever you do, be happy." With that, his arms fall back to his sides, and it's all I can do to let go of him in return.

"I'll write to you as soon as I'm settled," I say as I back toward the door. Every step is an effort, as though my feet are mired in quicksand.

"I look forward to it."

"I'll write to Noel, too… will you give him my letters, if I send them with yours?"

"Of course."

I open my mouth to speak again, and suddenly realize that there's nothing left to say. In the void left by the absence of words, the terror of uncertainty threatens to crush me again, and I freeze. Though I do my best to command them, my legs refuse to move any further.

As though he intuits my struggle, Florian comes forward and takes my hand. "You can do this, Laila. You need to do it, for yourself." He begins to lead me, very gently, toward the open door, and I follow him so reluctantly that it feels more as though I'm being dragged.

"Farewell, Laila," he says once I've made it outside. Then, he lets go of my hand, and walks back into the house.

"Farewell, Florian," I recite. I do not turn around: I know that I cannot bear the sight of the door closing behind me.

The soft click of the latch alone is nearly enough to bring me to my knees.

"Laila." This time, it's Michel's concerned voice that brings me back to my senses, and I look up to see him standing less than four steps from me. "Is there anything I can do?"

I take one step forward, then another. "If I stop… make sure I keep going?"

He grins. "Why, my dear, you make it sound like a chore."

To what I believe is my credit, I clear the twenty-three steps to the waiting carriage without this assistance.

---

During the few daydreams in which I've pictured the act of leaving, the boat that waited to carry me out of France always seemed so big, almost the size of a British flagship. Michel's ship, by contrast, is of the lightweight class favoured by merchants, and for a moment, I pause before it. Surely, such a modest ship cannot be the vessel of my departure. Surely, such a great change cannot be accomplished by such relatively minor means.

I shake my head then, and remind myself that the change is great only in my eyes.

"I know she doesn't look like much," Michel is saying when I return to my senses, as though he's read my mind, "but I find that less is more, at least in some cases. Wouldn't you agree?" He smiles invitingly at me, and I force myself to smile back.

"You'd know more about that than I would," I say.

"Quite possibly," he replies, and his smile broadens as though he considers my reply a victory of the highest order. "Come. I'll show you to your cabin. I gave orders that it was to be appropriately furnished, but if you don't like it, you may always relocate to another one." He laughs. "Please don't ask me to delay the voyage any longer in order to refurnish it, though. The captain is loyal, but even he might feed me to the sharks if I kept him waiting any longer."

I bow my head. "I apologize for holding you up."

Michel clicks his tongue. "Now, really… when have you ever known me to be coerced into something I didn't want to do?" I look up just in time to catch his wink. "That's one of the perks of being a free spirit, you know: no one can tell you what to do."

"Thank you, then."

"You are, as before and always, most welcome, Miss Laila." He begins walking, and I follow him as far as the boarding ramp in silence. Once we reach its lower boundary, however, I stop, and by the time Michel turns around, he's already halfway to the deck.

"Is everything all right, Laila?" he asks.

I turn, and look out at the port town behind us. I watch the harbour workers going about their lives, and imagine Noir and Florian going about theirs. I allow the memories of my time in this country to flow through me, and capture them within myself. I will never let them go, but nor will I ever let them control me.

"Not yet," I reply, "but I'm coming anyway."

My first step onto the boarding ramp does indeed feel like a victory of the highest order.

---

Inside my cabin, the décor of which I don't even notice, I unwrap my present from Florian and Noel. The ribbon falls, forgotten, to the floorboards, and I lift the lid from the box as I've often watched Noir open treasure chests, with equal parts anticipation, satisfaction, and trepidation.

The box contains a very finely made crystal pin, cut into the shape of a rose, complete with thorns. The blossom is tinted amber, and I recall reading somewhere that yellow roses represent dying or platonic love. For a moment, I wonder whether this link was intentional, until I notice the folded slip of paper tucked beneath the pin.

_No matter what_, it says, in Florian's handwriting, _we'll always love you_.

I set the box aside, and press my hands to my face. I don't want to cry anymore; I want to face the dawn of this new chapter in my life bravely, and happily, in the certainty that I've made the right choice. I'm so sick of tears, and the weakness they demonstrate. These, I tell myself as they begin to fall, will be the last I cry over this.

Though its falsehood is evident, the lie remains comforting.


End file.
